Poems (Craik)/The Good of it

by Dinah Maria Craik

THE GOOD OF IT.

A Cynic's Song.

OME men strut proudly, all purple and gold,
 Hiding queer deeds 'neath a cloak of good fame;
I creep along, braving hunger and cold,
 To keep my heart stainless as well as my name;
   So, so, where is the good of it?

Some clothe bare Truth in fine garments of words,
 Fetter her free limbs with cumbersome state:
With me, let me sit at the lordliest boards,
 "I love" means I love, and "I hate" means I hate,
   But, but, where is the good of it?

Some have rich dainties and costly attire,
 Guests fluttering round them and duns at the door:
I crouch alone at my plain board and fire,
 Enjoy what I pay for and scorn to have more.
   Yet, yet, where is the good of it?

Some gather round them a phalanx of friends,
 Scattering affection like coin in a crowd;
I keep my heart for the few that heaven sends,
 Where they 'll find their names writ when I lie in my shroud.
   Still, still, where is the good of it?

Some toy with love, lightly come, lightly go,
 A blithe game at hearts, little worth, little cost:—
I staked my whole soul on one desperate throw,
 A life 'gainst an hour's sport. We played; and I—lost.
   Ha, ha, such was the good of it!

MORAL: ADDED ON HIS DEATH-BED.

Turn the Past's mirror backward. Its shadows removed,
 The dim confused mass becomes softened, sublime:
I have worked—I have felt—I have lived—I have loved,
 And each was a step towards the goal I now climb:
   Thou, God, Thou sawest the good of it.